


The Dead Sea was Pale Blue (suppose we repented)

by Irrelevancy



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Character(s) of Color, F/M, Gen, Genderqueer Character, Homophobia, M/M, Modern Era, Multi, Pining, Queer Themes, Racism, Rebellion, Revolution, Riots, Sexual Content, Social Justice, Trans Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 00:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dystopia!AU: people are going hungry in a time of food shortage. The government blames lack of supplies, but the rich and well-fed stay protected behind gates and security. Enjolras is the wanted head of a militant revolutionary group, and Combeferre leads a political campaign for change and equality. Together they lead the Amis in a careful balance between bureaucratic negotiation and direct action. And as if that weren't enough, everyone also has a lot of feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dead Sea was Pale Blue (suppose we repented)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by social justice. The title is two separate phrases from _Waiting for Godot_ , because society is absolutely Absurd, but we still have to make it as decent as possible.

There was steam everywhere; the city never needed rain to be drenched. The streets looked sweat-stained, the buildings smelled of salt. Winds tore between impotent electric wires, howling for justice to the dead and skinny children.

Days like this, with his frozen hands in kid leather wrapped around his gun, Courfeyrac thought a lot about something Jehan had recited, once, over a tin cup of warmed mead. _In the reeds an entire Leviathan was rotting_ , they had hummed like a dirge, like a hollow song skimmed off the top of a porcelain vase. Courfeyrac thought a lot about it. An entire Leviathan rotting. He never remembered to ask Jehan what the quote was from.

“This,”he declared, “is the kind of palette Odette dies in.”

His voice was barely a mutter, but he trusted the throat mike to pick it up. Sure enough, Combeferre’s soft huff of laughter came through his earpiece.

“It’s a bad night for suicide—”Combeferre replied, static-laced and throaty. “—too much work to be done.”

“If I get turned into a swan, would you declare your love for me to break the curse?”Courfeyrac mused, fluttering his eyes at the government storage building in the dark.

“Regrettably, no,”Combeferre answered, sounding genuinely mournful. “If you get turned into a swan, I would probably kill and eat you.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Don’t lie,”he chuckled. “You’d probably kill me and feed me to everyone else, you fucking martyr you.”

No denial—maybe because the target moved into view, but probably because Courfeyrac was right. Combeferre was built broad and had a heart the size of mastodons, so a lot of the food inevitably went to the skinnier-looking ones of the lot—Jehan, with their feather-like constitution; Gavroche, who was still growing whole handfuls of inches at a time; Joly, with his chronic fits of shaking and his bones wearing thin his skin. Courfeyrac would count Enjolras, the beanpole, if Enjolras didn’t just _forget to eat_ half the time (let’s be real—like _seventy percent_ of the time), so what he did eat (i.e. what Combeferre shoved down his throat) pretty much balanced out with what he didn’t.

But really, most of the time, ration distribution came out even, so there’s no differentiation between “thin”and “not yet thin”—everyone has their fair share of ribs poking out, vertebrates bumpy under shirts. A diet of protein bars and real food every couple of months (holy shit _bread_ , Courfeyrac _loved_ bread) would do that, no matter how healthy and nutritional the government claimed the synthesized bars to be.

And speaking of government, the barb-wired first estate—Courfeyrac took aim.

“Don’t miss,”Combeferre said idly.

“Gee, you miss a tiny keychain on a tiny belt on a tiny person _in a thunderstorm_ one time, and no one lets you forget it,”Courfeyrac murmured back.

“You’ll never live it down.”

Courfeyrac squeezed the trigger; without a sound, the tiny shard of bullet corkscrewed through the night, skimming the security guard’s keychain. The key fell to the grass, the thud masked by the wailing city.

“Bullseye.”

“Ep, you’re up,”said Combeferre. “Courf, you’ve a minute to clear out.”

All was quiet over the earpiece as Courfeyrac disassembled the gun to unrecognizable pieces (Feuilly’s work, the engineering miracle that man was) and stowed it away. The building’s backyard was lit by floodlights, the electricity a loud, overcast buzz. Courfeyrac kept his eyes on Eponine’s slight figure pressed against the brick building wall, slipping from shadow to shadow, counting down the seconds left in the security guard’s patrol around the yard. Eighteen seconds left, the white marble campanile looming and ticking over the entire city (as it does, as it never fucking stops doing—well, at least it’s useful when, say, a revolutionary group lacked synchronized watches in committing acts of treason). Twelve seconds. There were sounds of footsteps in the hallway behind him— but where had the figure gone? Stiffening against the balcony railing, Courfeyrac dipped his fingers back into the pile of metal pieces in his coat pocket, prepared to remake the gun in seconds if he needed—

Combeferre, “Stand down, Courfeyrac—”

“—I’m clear,”Eponine hissed over the line. “The hell, Courf, get the fuck out of there, dumbass!”

And Courfeyrac had just enough time to breathe a sigh of relief before he vaulted over the railing, military-heavy footsteps shaking the building in his wake. There were two whole seconds of free fall, before large hands took hold of his arms and swung him onto the balcony two stories beneath. Courfeyrac hadn’t even caught his breath, and Bahorel was already knotting braids of polyethylene rope around his torso, strapping him into the hang glider frame.

“Cutting it real close there, bud,”Bahorel grunted, yanking the ropes so Courfeyrac was pressed snug against his back. Courfeyrac fumbled his goggles out of his bag and quickly snapped them on. “Pivot left so I can run.”

Whispering a quick sorry, Courfeyrac obeyed the order as Bahorel began taxiing, their boots thudding off the brand new linoleum floors. Their trajectory aimed right through an open bay window, its frame still taped up in branded corporate packaging. As they came to the edge, Bahorel dipped forward, muscles bulking up under Courfeyrac as he hoisted Courfeyrac right off the ground. Yet another moment of free fall, just a half second this time around, before Bahorel caught him and the wind caught them; they punched through the night like a dart, smoke and steam billowing in camouflage around them.

“ _I change my mind!_ ”Courfeyrac yelled, voice disassembled by whipping blades of wind. “ _This is the best weather! I feel hidden, I feel blessed!_ ”

“Just a simple _we_ _’_ _re clear_ would’ve been enough,”Combeferre laughed, clearly relieved. “Eponine, you’re good?”

Bahorel banked suddenly, steeply to avoid another billion-dollar condo, and Courfeyrac’s earpiece tumbled out, dangling from the wire at his waist and dancing behind them. Pulling himself up on the hang glider frame and craning his head forward, he yelled into Bahorel’s ear— the one without the earpiece.

“ _Eponine? She’s clear?_ ”

Bahorel’s answering head jerk served a dual purpose— to both say yes and to threaten Courfeyrac with a concussion if he didn’t scoot back down. Courfeyrac ducked his head and did as he was told, but not before nuzzling Bahorel’s shoulder in thanks. He then remembered the fifteen-minute travel time, so settled in with locked elbows and as relaxed a form as he could manage in such a situation, hanging two hundred meters above terminal velocity and unforgiving concrete.

They flew with the night like this. Cotton shreds of clouds parted to let them pass, and fog curled cool and yellow around their ankles. At one point they pass the campanile, their destination north of the glowing goliath. Each tick of its second hand seemed to make the very air shudder; no birds dared to perch on it. The official line about its construction was one of glory and patriotism and a _symbol of strength in a time of moral and spiritual need_. Personally, Courfeyrac found it hysterically phallic— or, on nights like this, when smog made rings of itself along the length of the bell tower, Courfeyrac gave himself poetic license to compare it to a single fleshless finger, rising from the depths of earth. _Maybe it’s the accusation of a Hell-Being,_ Bossuet had suggested one drunken evening, smirking around a flask. Grantaire had snorted, scratching absently at his eternal stubble. _Maybe it’s Satan flipping us off._

Even Enjolras had found no fault with that descriptor. That was the story Courfeyrac kept to tell if he ever needed to transmit exactly _how_ awful the campanile was.

The clock now read eleven thirty; they were right on schedule. Before descending, Bahorel reached back and patted Courfeyrac’s head in warning, almost knocking Courfeyrac’s goggles askew. As he pulled himself up straight behind Bahorel, Courfeyrac tightened his grip on the glider frame— no matter how many times he’s done this, Courfeyrac’s stomach still invariably flips when they succumb to gravity. He’d no idea how Bahorel handled it, even _loved_ it, if the loud whoop Bahorel made was any indication. Gritting his teeth, Courfeyrac forced his eyes to stay open, both anticipating and horrifically dreading the moment his feet touched the ground.

_And—_ touchdown. They skidded a bit, until Bahorel’s powerful frame packed downwards and rooted them. Courfeyrac held his breath until they were— _finally_ — absolutely stationary.

“Relax Courf,” Bahorel was already laughing, nudging Courfeyrac as to ease up Courfeyrac’s white-knuckled grip. Bouncing his heels up and down on solid, solid earth, Courfeyrac ripped his goggles off and shoved them away. “That was _the_ most gentle landing in the entire world. You’re fine.”

“Tell that to my dinner, you’ll see it in five seconds,” Courfeyrac grumbled, rubbing his shaking hands together. Bahorel gave him a friendly shove in the direction of the Musain.

“Get the hell away from me then. Ask R for some brandy, if he’s back— that’ll settle you down.”

With a shaky salute, Courfeyrac began making his way across the lawn, toes curling inside his military-grade boots (if one good thing came of the military-industrial complex, it was weather-and-bulletproof gear— provided they could get their hands on it). The Musain was dark, its placid, unassuming exterior lit in patches by way of streetlamps. A tall, dense pine pressed tight against the building’s side, and it was to this shadowed corner Courfeyrac headed.

The small side door cracked open when Courfeyrac was still some meters from it, guiding with a faint stream of light. Smiling, Courfeyrac quickened his pace until Joly was no longer just a silhouette. With a foot stuck out to keep the door open, Joly leaned forward to give Courfeyrac a big, warm hug.

“Welcome back,” he greeted, un-tucking and unraveling the scarf from Courfeyrac’s neck, then looping it over himself. Even from where Courfeyrac stood, still several steps from the doorway, he could feel the warmth of the building radiating. He could only imagine Joly was experiencing the opposite, the sudden outside cold an attack on his rapidly reddening cheeks. “I heard everything went well, though Combeferre said you dropped comms after you get into the air— hope the return trip was okay.”

“It was as great as hang gliding in the middle of the night could be, I guess,” Courfeyrac answered with an exaggerated sigh. Joly’s gloved hands patted Courfeyrac’s cheek with a complete lack of sympathy.

“Better than incarceration, better than death,” he replied cheerfully. Grinning, Courfeyrac wrapped his hands around Joly’s waist and spun them, effectively switching places. Joly used the momentum from the spin to continue traipsing backwards down the lawn, heading for where Bahorel’s shadow was working at dismantling and storing the hang glider. He, under Bahorel and Feuilly’s careful tutelage, was one of the few of the Amis who were actually permitted to handle the bigger pieces of equipment. Courfeyrac’s been banned from the mechanics of the hang glider ever since the incident with the wrench and the protein bar. “Go check in already. Eponine won’t be back with the key until tomorrow, and E and R aren’t back yet, so Combeferre’s doing his pacing thing.”

“I’ll settle him down,” Courfeyrac promised, standing blissfully in the warm building, already shutting the door. “See you later.”

The inside hallway, despite being lit dimly, still took Courfeyrac’s eyes a second to adjust to. He took the moment to wipe off his boots, humming a little tune around the cold stiffness of his vocal chords. Unclipping the pouch from his side, he wrapped up the mic wire around it and tied it into a little bow.

“Honey, I’m home!” he then cheerfully announced, stepping into the main room. The décor was Musichetta and Jehan’s doing, all rounded edges full of dark wood and warm metals. Perched with his laptop on a stool by the open bar, Bossuet looked over and waved, almost upsetting a glass of brandy with the cast on his left arm.

“Honey’s in the war room,” Bossuet said. Courfeyrac began walking to the office-slash-control center immediately. “How’d the mission go?”

“Perfectly. Very double-o-seven— you should’ve seen the shot.”

“I hear Eponine’s angry with you though.”

Courfeyrac paused, a rueful turn to his lips. 

“Eh, I got worried for a moment, so stayed a tiny bit longer than I should’ve.” Shrugging, Courfeyrac crossed his arms. “I’ll apologize, it’s not a big deal.”

“The police were three seconds from seeing you, Courf— it was somewhat of a big deal.”

Courfeyrac wheeled around, beaming. “Honey!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms up for Combeferre to step into the hug. With a wry smile, Combeferre complied, but not before flicking Courfeyrac on the nose.

“Don’t _honey!_ me. That was not okay, Courfeyrac. Follow my timeline next time; I had contingency plans, had worst come to worst,” Combeferre chastised. Courfeyrac looked suitably chagrined, then delivered his equipment pouch like a present. Combeferre snorted, but accepted. He then turned to Bossuet, smiling faintly. “How’s the arm?”

Bossuet shrugged, hitting save on his text document before shutting his laptop. Courfeyrac caught a glimpse of a bolded headline before it disappeared from sight: _They can’t shoot us all._ Another pamphlet for Feuilly to run copies of, then.

“Not the worst I’ve done to myself, nor the worst that’s been done to me,” he smiled toothily. “Joly says I’ll heal.”

“Painkillers?” Combeferre offered.

“Actually, yeah.” Bossuet frowned faintly, his fingers flitting absently from within the cast. “If you’ve any to spare I’ll take some back to the free clinic— they’re running a little short after the past week, y’know.”

“I’ve about ten boxes I can lift from circulation.” Combeferre’s gaze darted to the left, the way he does when he’s doing some mental calculations. “I may be able to get you twenty– no, fifteen, if I can get hold of the Broadway St. crowd.”

“Oh yeah,” Courfeyrac joined in. “I saw a couple of ambulances headed for that area tonight. Something happening?”

“A protestor at a sit-in reported a cop for sexual harassment,” Combeferre explained with a grimace. “Police issued a public statement tonight claiming the incident falsified, the accused cop threw around transphobic slurs—”

“And basically, shit’s going down,” Bahorel interrupted, strolling through the door with his shoes still on, tracking wet footprints all over, Joly close behind him. Tapping a finger on his earpiece, he shot Combeferre a questioning look, to which Combeferre nodded permission. With a harsh grin, Bahorel grabbed from the corner his canvas bag of _things_ that he took to all the demonstrations and protests and direct actions, stained dark with mud and rain and blood and whatever else, and began inspecting its contents. Amongst other noises, Courfeyrac heard glass clangs and metal scrapes. A buzz of electricity or two. “Prouvaire’s been updating me all night; I’m headed there right now.”

“Be careful,” Combeferre said. “There are reports of violence, rubber bullets.”

“I’ll bring my Kevlar binder then,” Bahorel snorted, then patted his bag to assure his friends that he wasn’t, in fact, joking.

“I’m getaway driver,” Joly chimed in. “Mind if I take the ambulance tonight?”

The ambulance wasn’t literally an ambulance, of course, merely packed to the brim with medical supplies and a cleared out space just wide enough for a gurney instead of backseats. Courfeyrac was lucky enough to never have to make use of that space, but many of his sleepless nights were peppered with images of his blood-covered friends lying in their ambulance.

“Go right ahead,” Combeferre answered. “But gauze may be a bit low, after last time, with Eponine—”

“Ah no problem,” Bossuet, “I restocked—”

“Then you’re good to go—”

“Great, I’m _ready_.” Bahorel swung his bag over his shoulder and strapped it to his chest. “Joly?”

Reaching over the bar, Bossuet grabbed the ambulance keys and tossed it over to Joly, almost hitting Joly in the eye. Not missing a beat, Joly waved his thanks, blew a kiss, and followed Bahorel out the door, calling over his shoulder a faint, “Don’t wait up!”

“I will anyways,” Bossuet yelled back drily. Turning to Courfeyrac, he asked, “have you any more plans for the evening?”

“Not unless anyone needs me.”

“Good,” Bossuet decided, jabbing his cast in Combeferre’s direction. “Then you can put this guy to bed.”

Combeferre was protesting before Bossuet even finished. “Enjolras and Grantaire—”

“Will do what they do even if you’re in bed sleeping off the past, what, thirty-six hours?”

“Thirty-six??” Courfeyrac exclaimed, tsking pointedly over Combeferre’s muttered denial and deliberately unaffected expression. He grabbed Combeferre by the elbow and began steering him toward the bedrooms in the back. “Combeferre, what are the house rules?”

“Listen to Combeferre when he tells you to leave the scene of the crime?” Combeferre sniped.

“No, that’s a field rule, dummy.” Combeferre just stuck out his tongue in response. “Rule Number Something, no staying up for more than twenty-four hours at a time, it’s no good for growing revolutionaries.”

“Enjolras has stayed up for _far_ longer.”

“…And so you made that rule, so he wouldn’t,” Courfeyrac reminded. “You can’t pull the _If Enj did it why can’t I?_ argument darling, it’s a logical fallacy.” When Combeferre still refused to budge, Courfeyrac began wheedling. “C’mon ‘Ferre, I know you wanna wait up, but just a nap. Ninety-minutes, a full REM cycle. You can use it.”

When Combeferre’s brows furrowed and his eyes darted toward the stairs, Courfeyrac knew he had won. Unfortunately, just as Combeferre’s feet started moving, there came the sound of footsteps from their door. Combeferre wheeled around, and Courfeyrac groaned, inwardly cursing Enjolras and Grantaire for their awful timing.

“Look, they’re back, you can go sleep—”

Courfeyrac’s last feeble attempt was interrupted by the furious argument that seemed to inevitably accompanied Enjolras and Grantaire. Enjolras rounded the corner first, blond hair flying around him, three empty duffle bags in hand. Grantaire followed close behind, looking soaked to the bone; his gray beanie was stained dark red in the low lighting. With a sharp inhale, Combeferre yanked the first-aid kit off the wall and started towards Grantaire. But Grantaire held up a palm first, smiling wryly.

“It’s just wine, Combeferre, don’t worry.”

“What the hell happened?” Bossuet asked, settling back down in his seat. Grantaire shrugged.

“A run-in with an angry patron, no big deal.” Enjolras, shoving the duffle bags into a locker, scoffed loudly in reply. Grantaire’s gaze didn’t shift, but turned flinty, his smile all teeth. “You know Combeferre, we really ought to revisit some of those sexual harassment pamphlets we were handing around some time ago— remember those? Because clearly, _some_ people need a reminder as to what sexual come-ons look like—”

“Le Cabuc has never done anything untoward,” Enjolras snapped. “Don’t accuse people as you please of—”

“Oh my dear, dear leader,” Grantaire simpered. Enjolras immediately bristled at his tone, leveling Grantaire with a most frightening glare. But Grantaire— he was _off_ tonight, Courfeyrac realized with a grimace, if he wasn’t backing off. Grantaire must’ve drank either too much or too little, Courfeyrac could never quite tell. “It is you who are delusional. God knows, to even be standing next to you when he gave you that _look_ —” Snarling in disgust, Grantaire gave a dramatic full-body shudder. “—I wanted a scalding hot bath, if only to sear off the sliminess of his intent—”

“So you piss him off and almost give away our presence to the police,” Enjolras hissed. “Yes, R, that was obviously the best solution.”

Grantaire snorted, but made no retort. His eyes flickered from the entrance to the hallway of offices to the stairs, from escape route to escape route. Then, they lit on Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac saw both frustration and a plea for help. Courfeyrac swallowed, but nodded minutely, and Grantaire bounded for the stairs like a spooked animal.

“I’ll see to him,” Courfeyrac announced generally, but with a meaningful look at Bossuet (who bit his lip and nodded), before starting up the stairs. Behind him, Enjolras was making his way to the control room, Combeferre right behind him, all previous plans of rest forgotten.

The upper floor of the Musain had been a hotel under the previous owner, so the bedrooms were lined up nice and neat. Each door had little name tags taped to it, all of them a little frayed after much switching around, announcing who slept where with whom. Grantaire and Feuilly’s room were at the very end of the hallway, but it was to his own room (in the middle on the left) that Courfeyrac headed, familiar enough with the way Grantaire’s mind worked to make the educated guess.

And sure enough, Grantaire was perched at the foot of Courfeyrac’s bed. The sharp streetlight from outside cast his skin in pallid contrast to the heavy circles under his eyes. He had yanked the beanie off his head and twisted it between his hands, leaving his hair a frenzied mess. With an ugly twist to his mouth, Grantaire looked, for all intents and purposes, like he was about to launch himself out the opposite-facing window. Just in case, Courfeyrac stepped in front of him, a wary, but mostly friendly smile on his lips.

“Hey,” he said.

“I fucked up,” Grantaire replied. Then he chuckled, breathy and humorless. “But what else is new?”

“The protests that flared up on Broadway tonight,” Courfeyrac offered. Making sure Grantaire could see his hand, Courfeyrac slowly reached out and slid his fingers into the mess of Grantaire’s curls, scratching and lightly massaging his scalp. Grantaire’s head fell forward in silent permission. “We got the key to the warehouse. Valjean might visit tomorrow.”

“Tell me Courf, are you such an optimist by nature, or are you just trying to balance me out?” Grantaire’s own hand came up, fingers threading through Courfeyrac’s. Breathing out, Grantaire stood, meeting Courfeyrac’s eyes then pushing Courfeyrac back against the wall, a little awkward, a little rough. “Let me suck you?”

“If it’s what you need.”

Permission granted, Grantaire dropped to his knees with twin thumps, head dipping forward. Where his hands worked at Courfeyrac’s belt, then zipper, then pants with purpose, his eyes remained half shut, gaze low and distant. Courfeyrac kept still, deliberately blank in posture and empty of commitment, understanding that his customary cheer and adoration during sex wasn’t really what Grantaire was looking for. This wasn’t their first time, after all.

They made it quick, Grantaire not bothering with delicacy and Courfeyrac perfectly content to just let him do his thing. Wet warm lips and rough drags of tongue against his cock had Courfeyrac swallowing dry, and it was only a matter of minutes before he came with a hitched breath and fingernails scraping the wall— Courfeyrac had been on edge all night as well. Ever watchful of body language, Grantaire had been ready, pulling off and stroking Courfeyrac to completion1, his hand broad and rough. Breathing deeply as he rode off his high, Courfeyrac peeled his hands off the wall and allowed himself one soft pat of thanks to Grantaire’s curls. Perhaps it wasn’t his ideal, but Courfeyrac hardly _disliked_ rough and sloppy— he’s long since learned to enjoy what pleasures he could, given the time restraints, space restraints, legal restraints in their soggy, muddy city. The night outside was a somber, watchful thing, its silence reinforced by the cameras sweeping the streets and _only_ the streets— the way they strictly avoided capturing private property was almost a mockery of privacy, had the Amis not came up with a clever way to use it to their advantage. The Musain’s privately owned lawn was a tamped-down runway, free from government eyes; Courfeyrac could see it from his room.

“Do you want me to…?” Before Courfeyrac could finish making his offer Grantaire was already shaking his head. Leaning over, Courfeyrac swiped a tissue from Jehan’s bedside table and handed it to Grantaire, who used it to wipe his hand clean. Courfeyrac tucked himself back into his pants, then gave Grantaire a hand up. “Ah– thanks.”

“Anytime,” Grantaire snorted, then pulled out a flask. Taking a large swallow, Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath for a spot too long before he surfaced again, grimacing through a smile. “Though clearly, I should be the one thanking you–”

Courfeyrac couldn’t help himself— huffing out a loud breath he launched forward and enveloped Grantaire in a hug, his arms like twine around Grantaire’s shoulders. Jerking in surprise, Grantaire stumbled backwards a little, before catching himself and tentatively folding his palms to Courfeyrac’s hips. Courfeyrac was a bit taller than Grantaire, and he tucked his head down into the curve of Grantaire’s neck; the smell of alcohol on Grantaire was pungent and dizzying.

“What’s this for?” Grantaire murmured, pressed warmly against Courfeyrac but still a little stiff, ready for Courfeyrac to pull away any second. But Courfeyrac didn’t move, just held on tighter, until finally, finally Grantaire began to curve into the embrace, shoulders and elbows falling.

“I love you, you know,” Courfeyrac said, and Grantaire sucked in a slow breath, eyelashes fluttering against Courfeyrac’s ear.

“You say those words so _easily_ , it’s–” he began like an accusation, leaning back at the same time to catch Courfeyrac’s eyes. Then his mouth opened, closed, twisted ever which way, before finally settled on a defeated smile. “–it’s nice, actually. Thanks. I, uh, me too.”

“Good,” Courfeyrac grinned.

“I think I’m calling it a night,” Grantaire continued awkwardly, and Courfeyrac made to free him from the hug. “Um–” Quick as lightning, Grantaire ducked forward and hugged Courfeyrac tight again, almost knocking their heads together. He pulled back just as fast, their curls caught and tangling in between; Grantaire brushed the strands aside impatiently, expression carefully set the way it did when he was embarrassed. “Good night. And thanks, again.”

“G’night R.” After the mission and emotional shenanigans and blowjob, Courfeyrac was feeling the drag to his eyelids, and shuffled toward his bed. But just as he was making up his mind to collapse, Courfeyrac heard Grantaire speak again, this time directed outside, behind the door where Courfeyrac couldn’t see.

“You looking for Courf? Yeah he’s inside." 

And Grantaire looked over his shoulder, brows furrowed. He looked as if about to speak, but instead just drummed his fingers against the doorframe once, then left for his room. Courfeyrac dragged a hand over his face and straightened in preparation for company.

It was Combeferre, looking infinitely more worn down after getting the full story (and then some) from Enjolras, no doubt. Courfeyrac couldn’t help but smile— what a pair they made, picking up after their friends like this. Combeferre returned the smile, a little faded, yet perfectly genuine. 

“Hey, did you and Grantaire talk–” All of sudden, Combeferre cut himself off, blinking round eyes and smelling at the air. Courfeyrac immediately realized what the room must smell of, the crumpled-up tissue sitting at the bottom of the wastebasket hard evidence of his and Grantaire’s tryst. He felt a surge of panic when Combeferre met his eyes, still looking startled and disbelieving— with any other partner, Courfeyrac would have told Combeferre in a heartbeat, but the whole balance between Grantaire and Enjolras was shaky at best, and back when they first started the casual sex part of decompression, Courfeyrac had figured they were better off keeping it a secret. But now, Combeferre’s expression was becoming shuttered, the way it did when politicians spewed lies and victim-blaming accusations at public events, and Courfeyrac could feel his throat seize up.

“We talked!” he managed to say, and decided to continue playing dumb. Combeferre didn’t step into the room, didn’t come closer to Courfeyrac like he usually would. “I think R’s okay now, he was just stressed, y’know?” Cringing when Combeferre didn’t reply, Courfeyrac hurriedly asked, “and Enjolras? How is he?”

“…Less angry; I gave him the edits on his pamphlet to rewrite.” Combeferre’s way of speech was careful, had Courfeyrac nervously shuffling his feet. “Plus, his plate’s kind of full with the whole blackmailing-the-government thing, I don’t think he’s really got time to stay angry at Grantaire for a minor fumble right now.”

“That’s good.” Courfeyrac cleared his throat. “Are all the preparations for the blackmailing thing ready, then?”

“Yeah— as soon as Eponine brings a copy of the key tomorrow, we’re set to go.” Shaking his fingers free from his jacket, Combeferre adjusted his glasses. “…Good job tonight, by the way. The plan ought to go smoothly from here.”

Courfeyrac recognized a peace offer when he saw one, and gladly took it. “It was well-directed on your part. We keep this up, the government will be cowering at Enjolras’ feet in no time.”

“We’ll be ready to receive their white flag,” Combeferre chuckled, and the air became a little less stifling.  “I just came to check on you and Grantaire, then head to bed. Goodnight Courf, rest well.”

And Courfeyrac— god _dammit_ , Courfeyrac— still antsy, still paranoid about the whole Grantaire situation, couldn’t keep his mouth shut before Combeferre closed the door behind him:

“Hey ‘Ferre, about R?” he blurted. “Don’t tell Enjolras?”

Combeferre froze, his back to Courfeyrac, pose almost identical to Grantaire’s as he was leaving the room. But where Grantaire constantly fidgeted, Combeferre’s movements were economical, almost icy in how he held the door by his fingertips, curled around the wood.

“…Don’t tell Enjolras about you and Grantaire. Got it,” Combeferre said coldly, before the door clicked inoffensively shut behind him, leaving Courfeyrac blinking after him, lips parted in an apology that almost made its way out.

Then, without even taking off his shoes, Courfeyrac turned and collapsed face-first into his bed.

**Author's Note:**

> 1— I learned from Mykel that swallowing semen has actually a moderate HIV-transmission-risk; practice safe and protected sex, y'all.
> 
> The poem Jehan recited in part for Courfeyrac at the beginning is "The Drunken Boat" by Arthur Rimbaud (http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/arthur-rimbaud/the-drunken-boat/).
> 
> A campanile is a freestanding bell tower. There is a famous one at my university; it is 500% phallic.


End file.
